


Brought to Heel

by IrLaimsaAraLath



Series: Pride Goeth [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Consensual Non-Consent, Consent Issues, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/M, Physical Abuse, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 23:30:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11861907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IrLaimsaAraLath/pseuds/IrLaimsaAraLath
Summary: Niyera and the gang are playing Wicked Grace, all quite drunk, and the Inquisitor loses more than she wins.  Solas becomes quite perturbed by her growing state of undress and attempts to manhandle her out of the tavern.  They eventually end up working it out in perhaps the least healthy way possible.





	Brought to Heel

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This fic contains violent sex with rape/non-con elements due to extreme drunkenness. If this is bothersome to you, please don't proceed. Also, if you need anything else tagged, please let me know.
> 
> This would have taken place after Crestwood in the Solas/Lavellan romance.

The depth of the cold outside the tavern made the warmth within its walls all the more appealing, and it drew them like moths to a flame.  Mages drank with templars, soldiers with craftsmen, and their boisterous voices filled the air.  Tucked into a corner on the second floor, a pair of tables had been pushed together, and around them sat Niyera, Varric, Dorian, Krem, and Devin, a new recruit Bull had taken under his wing.  Bull himself had gone downstairs to replenish their drinks. At a table off to the side sat Solas, nursing a tumbler of bourbon as he had been all night.  Occasionally she’d glanced his way, but she only ever found him watching the proceedings with a dour expression.  They’d all attempted to get him to join in, but he wasn’t interested in Wicked Grace.

 

So, they played on without him.  After many games, too many drinks, and when most of the other patrons had retired for the night, they were still going.  Varric had bowed out of enough games to manage to keep himself fully clothed, but he was the only one.  Dorian was bare to the waist, Krem was in his smalls and a thin tunic only, Devin was bare-chested in his smalls, and she was left only in her tunic, which hit her at mid-thigh.  She was well-passed the point of drunkenness where Solas’s scowls of disapproval bothered her, but it was quite obvious to anyone who would look that he was growing ever more annoyed with her state of undress.  His own state of inebriation certainly wasn’t improving matters, either.

 

“That’s a damned shame, Inquisitor,” Devin’s voice shot across the table at her, the mirth in his hazel eyes echoed in his words.  Dorian had bowed out several turns back, as had Varric and Krem, and Bull had just been coaching his protege, who he now clapped soundly on the shoulder.  She made a disgusted noise as she threw her cards down and turned to glare at Varric playfully.  “I think this is your fault.  You’ve been dealing in his favor.”  The dwarf looked taken aback, genuinely insulted even, as he began gathering his cards into a stack.  “Not me, Kitten.  I am nothing without my solid and trustworthy reputation.”  She snorted out a chuckle as she pushed her chair back and stood.  “That’s you, alright.  Trustworthy,” she huffed out, amused as she moved to grip the hem of her tunic.  

 

Dorian cleared his throat rather loudly as he reached across the table lay a hand on her arm.  “My dear, perhaps it is best if you depart with some shred of your dignity left.  You’ve already lost the past several games, must you lose all your clothes as well?”  The Tevinter’s teasing was good-natured and well-intended, and she squinted a drunk eye at him as she hesitated.  Everyone else at the table echoed his sentiments, when from the nearby table came Solas’s voice, “Take the peacock’s advice.  It is not especially becoming for the Inquisitor to shame herself thus in public.”  Coolly, he finished off his bourbon as he leveled his grey-blue gaze on her, his eyes narrowed faintly in discontent.

 

One corner of her mouth twitched upward even as her eyes lanced through the darkness to return Solas’s stare.  “I assure you, Solas, there is nothing beneath this tunic that I am ashamed of,” and with that, she stretched her arms overhead, pulling the garment free of her body.  She shook her head, tossing her long white locks back from her shoulders as she stood in nothing but her breast-band and smalls.  “And, should I ever feel the need for your  _ permission _ to disrobe, I’ll be sure to let you know,” she finished as she wadded up the tunic into a loose ball and chunked it at the elf.  He was unable to bat it away before it caught him in the side of the face.

 

She hadn’t really noticed, but the table around her had grown quiet as the awkward confrontation had passed between the former lovers.  Varric busied himself shuffling the cards, Krem had taken a keen interest in the bottom of his tankard, Dorian looked as if he was contemplating a change of venue, and Bull was just shaking his head.  Devin seemed to be the only one not purposefully turning his attention elsewhere, and he was staring at her, gaze unveiled as he took her in from head to toe.  Solas noticed before she did, and he stood even as he was tugging her discarded tunic from his shoulder.  Heavy footfalls carried him over to her table, where he shoved the crumpled heap of her tunic into Devin’s face and hissed at him, “Keep your eyes to yourself, boy,” before he turned to Niyera.  “We are leaving,” Solas snapped as he clamped down a hand on her upper arm and hauled her toward him.

 

Devin threw down the tunic as he began to rise from his seat, his face flushed with drunkenness and anger.  Niyera was attempting to pry Solas’s hand off her arm and was barking her protests at him even as Devin laid a hand on the mage’s shoulder.  “She said let go,” the younger man challenged, glaring into Solas’s face as he forced the elf to turn.  Narrowed slits of grey-blue eyes bore into Devin, and the muscles over the elf’s jaws worked ceaselessly as his mouth sliced into a thin line.  The tension in the air had reached a pitch that practically hummed.  Niyera was still pulling at her arm, more insistently now that Solas’s fingers were biting into her flesh with the depth of his anger.  “Take your hand off me, Solas,” she commanded, and he glanced briefly in her direction before returning his gaze to Devin.  The young man had taken the mage’s momentary distraction as an invitation, and Solas turned straight into a sucker punch.  

 

The elf staggered back, head jerked aside, and immediately everyone at the table came to their feet.  Krem and Dorian were hauling Devin away from Solas, Varric had scooched around the table to pull Niyera off the side and out of harm’s way, and Bull was moving to stand between the young recruit and the mage.  When the elf’s head swiveled back toward Devin, his chin was dropped low, and he was glaring from beneath his brow at the man like a wolf sizing up its prey.  There was a fire in his eyes that didn’t involve the slightest bit of heat; it was nothing but an ice cold burn that glazed his eyes.  “Okay, now, Solas,” Bull started, raising a hand as if the mere motion could hold the mage at bay.  “The kid got a cheap shot.  I’ll take care of him,” the Qunari continued, but as Solas thumbed one corner of his mouth, smearing a trickle of blood, the air around them became heavy with the scent of ozone.

 

Niyera and Dorian felt the prickle of magic on their skin at the same time, but Niyera was the first to act.  She snatched a fistful of Solas’s tunic and yanked at him, but the elf didn’t budge even an inch.  When her efforts went ignored, her cheeks flared red with anger, and she shoved at Solas as she shouted, “Don’t you dare!  This is  _ your _ fault.  You can  _ never _ leave well enough alone!”  Her words seemed to strike a chord in the mage, and the impending threat of magic in the air dissipated as he slid his eyes back around to her.  Without another word, he advanced on her, stooped to get a good hold, and heaved her up and back across his shoulder.  The look on her face must have been priceless because Dorian had never seen Bull so slack-jawed before.  All of them stared as the apostate stomped down the stairs and out of the tavern, with the Inquisitor struggling and quarreling the whole way.

 

* * *

 

The outer door to her quarters slammed shut behind them as Solas finally sat the Inquisitor back on her feet.  As soon as she had the leverage, she shoved both hands into his chest, knocking him back against the door.  “What in the void did you think you were doing?” she seethed at him, pushing at him again, though there was no further back he could go as he laid against the wooden door.  He didn’t speak, didn’t move, just gazed at her through a thin veil of drunkenness and encroaching anger.  She, in only her breast-band and smalls, stalked back and forth along the wood-railed walkway, hands gesturing in broad, erratic motions as she continued.

 

“You had no right.  None,” she shouted, and every time she turned, her hair snapped like a whip around her body.  His lack of a response was only making her that much more angry, and she drew up on him so close that he could smell the alcohol on her breath.  “ _ Now _ you have nothing to say?” she stared up at him, and the heave of her heavy breathing brushed her chest to his.  “You have not yet given me a chance to speak,” he offered, restrained as he reclined on the door.  “And, I am certain you are not interested in anything I might say.”  Twisting her mouth shut, Niyera stared furiously up at him and crossed her arms.  Gazing down his nose at her, he straightened away from the door, forcing her to take a step back.

 

“I suppose you might have been happier had I let you strip entirely, hm?” he accused, his hand cast through the air in a broad stroke.  “The _Herald_ of fucking _Andraste_ naked, in a tavern, surrounded by men,” he said, not shouting, but loud enough that his voice rebounded off the walls.  It was rare enough that he swore in Elvhen.  It was even rarer still that he cursed in the Common tongue.  He found the words coarse and distasteful.  His expression was drawn tight with the effort not to lose his temper.  He took another step forward and she another step back.  “Oh, yes, Niyera.  That is _exactly_ the sort of occurrence that would bolster the appeal of an _elven_ **mage** leading an army in the _Maker’s_ name,” he hissed, and he abruptly bumped into her when she ceased retreating from his glowering advance.

 

The bark of laughter that shot from her lips was short, harsh, and pointed.  “Oh, I see.  It’s not my virtue you’re worried for, it’s the Inquisition.  You can’t risk the crusade to retrieve yet another ‘ _ artifact of my people _ ’ falling apart.  I’m glad we’ve cleared that up,” she said, words dripping with with anger and no small amount of bitterness.  To emphasis her displeasure, she stood a moment longer in silence, the green blade of her glare slicing up at him for before she turned on her heel and started to the stairs.  She had only just put her foot on the first step when she felt his hand fall heavy on her shoulder, and she was spun around.  Her sense of balance was tenuous at best, but set off-kilter by his pull, the back of her bare shoulder scraped against the stone wall before he pushed her against it.  

 

“You do yourself nor me any credit by suggesting  _ that _ is the truth,” he asserted, the harsh edge in his voice for the first time colored by something other than anger.  Trapped between his body and the wall, flushed with anger, she was exceptionally unmoved by his words, true though they might be.  “The truth doesn’t matter here, Solas.  It’s just a burden eased by the convenience of lies and evasion,” she spat, roughly pushing him back and shouldering her way past him and up the stairs.  All at once, her anger began to well as tears in her eyes, the intensity of the emotion so strong that it craved an outlet.  Opening the inner door of her chambers, she stepped over the threshold only to be snatched back by Solas’s iron grip on her upper arms.  “Get off me,” she seethed, kicking back at him as she wrenched herself free, only to turn on him and throw all of her weight behind the effort drive him back.  The force of her charge sent him stumbling against the door as it had swung shut behind him, and a growl darkened the air as it rumbled up from his chest.

 

She was already midway the short set of steps into her room when he lunged at her, barely catching the back of her calf.  It was enough to trip her, and she fell forward, hard, onto the steps as Solas fought to get a better grip on her.  A twist of her body found her on her back, and she kicked at his chest with her free leg, catching his center mass to send him sprawling back.  She grunted with the effort, and now on all fours, she tried to clamor her way up the steps.  Her hand had just slapped down on the wooden floor at the top, when a tug on her ankle drug her back down the stairs.  The scrape of the step edges on her bare skin raised welts, and she grimaced and huffed at the pain.  Rough hands pulled and yanked at her, and she found herself beneath Solas on her back.  

 

She struggled, pushing and kicking, but the press of his body into hers, the stairs biting into her back trapped her and made her cry out.  --  Somewhere inside of herself, it was as if she was watching this scene play out in slow motion.  She was so angry, so hurt.  So  _ drunk _ .  It had barely been a week since he’d taken her to Crestwood, and the memory was still painfully raw.  That she still loved him only rubbed salt in the wound.  This was  _ not _ how she wanted to be with him.  This was  _ not _ how things should have ended up.  --  Before she knew what she’d done, she slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength she could summon.

 

His head snapped to the side, and he snarled when he turned back to her, grappling with her for only a moment longer before he had her hands pinned out at her sides.  They were both panting when they finally came eye to eye again.  Each of her breaths was tinged with a hint of pain, and her slap had made the corner of his mouth bleed again.  His eyes roved over her face, then lower to watch the quick rise and fall of her chest before he met her gaze once more.  At some point, tears had begun to flow down her cheeks, though that was the only indication that she was crying.  Just the sight of it pierced through the drunken fog of his anger and hit him as solidly as she had only moments earlier.  His resolve, along with his fury, was beginning to evaporate, and he let go of her wrists and started to pull back.

 

When her hands fisted in the front of his tunic, he began to protest, but was silenced almost immediately as she surged upward to crush her mouth against his.  The words he’d been poised to speak dissolved into a guttural noise when she hauled him down, hands abandoning their grip on his tunic to clutch desperately at his face.  There was absolutely nothing gentle or civilized in the way he yanked the cloth away from her chest, dragging the band down her torso before he slapped one of her breasts, palmed it roughly, then descended on it with his mouth.  A gasp hitched her breath and was followed by the roll of a moan at the workings of his tongue and lips.  Her careless hands yanked and tore at his tunic, and dimly, he heard the ripping of a seam, but was far too distracted to care in the slightest.  He already had a hand between them, feverishly unlacing his leggings even as the other hand found and maintained a loose grip on her throat.  

 

Unburdened by the fabric trapping it, his cock was a hard weight against the inside of her thigh as he struggled with her smalls.  Ultimately, the thin fabric was sacrificed in favor of expedience, easily ripped and discarded only seconds before he surged upon her.  With no preamble, he plunged into the heat between her legs, and for a moment, all he saw was white behind his eyes, and all he heard was the harmony of his moan and hers.  She was all but dripping, and her heels digging into the backs of his thighs as she wrapped her legs around him drug deeper.  The growl that left him was nothing short of feral, and he braced a hand on the steps and cushioned the back of her head with the other as he pulled out, only to ram hilt deep into her again.  Her cry was a perfect, clear note of tortured pleasure, and he buried the wolfish smile it painted on his lips into the skin of her shoulder.  

 

His pace was brutal and punishing, but she matched it, rising to meet each thrust with the leverage of her legs and the strength of her arms around him.  Their collective moans and growls and cries were a chorus, unrestrained and savage, as they simultaneously fed and sated their passions and anger in each other.  He was panting by the time he felt her clench around him, felt the drag of her nails claw into his back even through his tunic, and each breath he pushed past his lips became a sound like silk over gravel.  When she came, her body bowed against his, and the deep grinding push and pull on his cock bound him up and forced him over the edge with her.  As he spilled inside her, his rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and he bit down on her shoulder hard enough to raise an immediate bruise.  

 

When he was spent, his body sagged against hers, legs trembling and breath harried with exertion.  It was several minutes before his eyes sought hers, but he found them closed as she fought to regain control of her breathing.  His fingertips on her cheek called her eyes to open, the touch smearing the salt of sweat and tears together on her skin.  Her eyes were glazed and unreadable as she stared at him, but there was no mistaking the shove she pressed against his chest, forcing him back onto unsteady feet.  He watched her struggle on the steps as he tugged up his leggings, but she never made it off her hands and knees as unsteady as she was.  Brooking no protests, he lifted her into his arms and mounted the last few steps, striding over to the bed before unceremoniously dropping her into the mattress.  

 

Without a word, he turned to leave.  This was a mistake they would have to discuss when they were both more sober.  However, she caught his wrist, and the light pressure of her touch stopped him.  “Stay,” she quietly demanded as he glanced back over his shoulder at her, and just that simply, the Dread Wolf was commanded and obeyed.  


End file.
